The Diva's lonely Nights
by LilyBartAndTheOthers
Summary: But once the curtain falls, the diva is alone. WK fic.


It's like some ice on her heart. A small square that hurts and makes her clench her fists. She doesn't say nothing, just smiles and raises her eyebrows, defiantly. She can hold the gaze and the depth of his brown eyes but if he paid more attention, he would see that her heart is pleading for a break. A rest.

And something more perhaps.

Is it a mutual incompatibility or a fatal attraction? They try, subconsciously, but the spell always ends up being broken by a strength coming from outside. The curse of a lonely soul. She's trapped, he doubts. And the candlelight catches up the flame burning in their eyes.

She won't move until he slams the door and then her jaw will start shaking with anger. The remorse of her acts and the first tears falling on the plates, her smiles fading away like the pleasure to spend some time lost in his heart. An unfinished dinner, just another defeat. That's life.

She leans over and stifles her cries. Why is she unable to put an end to those fights? They're killing her, she's addicted. She takes a deep breath and looks up suddenly. Swallowing back her tears. Karen Walker doesn't cry, it doesn't match with the scene. She comes closer to the fireplace, she's cold. Exhausted. The contact with the marble is sharp but very soon the flames warm up her heart. There's someone in the street below, the pale figure of his body. What is he waiting for?

I'm sorry, Will. I'm so sorry, honey.

Her whispers get lost in a regretful sigh but the show must go on and the diva comes back, a bitter smile on her lips though. She needs some time.

What if she takes her glass and sips her martini, looking around blankly, not knowing what to do, even less what to say? She will drag herself until an old leather armchair and huddle up her body in an attempt of forgetting. And eventually will fall asleep rocked by a wave of tenderness she would love so much to give him.

It's not even about her feelings, she knows them by heart now. She has fallen for him and cherishes the hope she will be his. It's incredibly stupid but she has no hold over it. Let nostalgia take possession of me, Will. Isn't it romantic? The secret love of my life, the mysterious way of my soul. And those lonely nights, those arguments. How I embrace them lovingly whereas they don't do anything but hurt me. Steal my breath, hold me tight. I need your arms around me and the soft murmurs of your voice, a sweet kiss on my lips. Just one. I want to succomb under the charms of your eyes and make you smile. Give me your heart.

The tear will run on her cheek. Slowly, quietly, peacefully. Glimmering like the stars in the dark sky. What is the moon looking at? Is she blessing someone? Why is she so quiet and just observes the world, night after night. A man opening a door and staring at a woman crying in her dreams. It's when he realizes everything. How weak she may be sometimes. And lost, like him. They're not so different and that's why he's scared. That's why he plays along and just pretends, even though an irrepressible urge to take her in his arms is boiling in his veins and what if he tells her how she's all to him?

I love you, Kare.

There's no sound, only the motion of his lips. A furtive wave ending up by a smile. An impossible door to reach. It's too complicated, especially when there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a vague feeling that she's the one he wants to spend his life with. That's all, you can turn the lights off and leave. Don't expect anything, at least not in the sadness of reality. He can kneel down and frown in front of her pain. Her features are perfect but they're asking for relief. He can approach his hand, shaking, and brush her cheek but still. Life is empty.

She will open her eyes and plunge in the sweetness of his own ones. They're just a few inches away but there won't be any kiss. Any apologize, not even some tears.

What are you doing here, Wilma?

She hates when her voice sounds weak, she's afraid she could ruin everything. And if there's no love, no kiss, no smile, no warm embrace, at least their friendship. Why does he stay still and doesn't say a word? She closes her eyes and looks down. Don't do that to me, honey. How could he answer if she keeps it in her heart? Perhaps it's better like that.

Leave me alone. Please. You're not needed.

She will break down before the end of the sentence, then grab his neck and find comfort in the warmness of his chest. Her cries will get mixed with her pleading request but she will tighten the grip and slide down on the floor as he will caress her hair, trying to ease the pain and the cruelty he used to behave with.

What is it about him? What is it that her heartbeats get to speed whenever she looks at him? And when he brushes her hand, by accident, subconsciously, she feels how the floor starts spinning around and then she vanishes under her frightening feelings. She has been married, she should know about it but everything is different with Will. Everything.

But there won't be anything.

Her skin is soft under his lips. Warm, sweet. She's alive, in his arms. He loves it. A simple kiss on her cheek and he gently releases the subtle brush on her heart. His hands slide along her face and hold her head. Her eyes are glimmering, how could he resist? He leans over and feels her breath on his mouth but stops, doubts. She seems so lost. Too much maybe.

Why are we always wishing for a happy ending? Some stories were born to be sad, since the very beginning to the last word a pencil will trace on a sheet of paper. Or the artificial light on a computer. Who really decides that the characters will end up in the arms of each other? The author? A gloomy mood? A rainbow of hopes passing by a brain? Or just them, Will and Karen? Maybe it's too late and she will never find happiness. But what if for once she listened to her heart and dared to join his lips then get lost in his arms?

Or broke apart and murmured, looking down at the ground.

Leave me alone, Wilma.

The theater is full and the stage so warm but when the curtain falls and she hears him go away, the roses in her arms as a pale souvenir of a dead-end love, the diva turns herself and comes back to the dark.

To the icy fantasies of her lonely nights. Without Will.

That's life.


End file.
